WALTER SAVAGE LANDOR. (Born 1775--Died 1864). LANDOR was born, we are told in the "Book of Gems," from which we gain our scanty biographical information of him, at Ipsley Court, the seat of his family in Warwickshire, in January, 1775. He was educated at Rugby. He has spent a large portion of his time abroad upon the continent, in Spain, where he was intimately concerned in its politics, and in Italy, where he occupied a villa at Fiesole in the vicinity of Florence. He now resides in England, and is not an unfrequent contributor to the London Examiner, where his pungent, exact style betrays no marks of weakness or age. His last articles have been upon the affairs of Greece, and the proposed monument to his friend SOUTHEY at Bristol. The cause of liberty and truth has always inspired his pen. What he sees he sees clearly and expresses vividly. His great prose work, the "Imaginary Conversations," is full of noble thoughts, carved out as in statuary. His "Pericles and Aspasia" is worthy to be written in the original Greek, where Greek is classic. We know no author whose writings breathe a more conscious presence of nobility. His thought is perfect and entire, calin, clear, independent: it does not attempt to make you a convert; it is there without any declamation of apology, for you to return to it or not, as you choose; but you do return to it, fascinated by its brightness and single grandeur. LANDOR presents himself to us in his writings as a proud, intellectual man, and inflexible lover of truth, though not insensible to prejudice; of a native nobility of soul, quickly impressed by the show of manliness and worth; a sincere friend, and what, with a man of his temperament, is its correlative, a good hater; a fastidious, educated man, who carries his moral sensitiveness into the world of literature; a lover of poetry, himself a poet. Mr. LANDOR'S poetry, however, is the poetry of the intellect rather than the heart: it is indeed the sweet flower of a virtuous life, "of high erected thoughts seated in a heart Courtesy," but its images are single, isolated, a succession of brilliant mountain peaks, with hardly the warmth and continuous life of the sunny plains. It is the transposition of his prose, which is saying that his prose is eloquent, refined, poetical. There is no lyric flow, no flood of passion. His longest poem, “Gebir,”* was originally partly written in Latin, and is a work of great polish and strength in parts; as a whole it is weak, and tells no story worth telling. But this is to say what it is not-a barren style of criticism. It is a succession of costly pictures, of rare dramatic scenes; a collection of images glowing with thought, full of feminine tenderness by the side of manly beauty, a poetic quarry, or rather an uninhabited but kingly furnished palace, stored with marbles, and vases, and cabinet paintings, but wanting the living tide of life. The subject, however, admits of this treatment. It is one of Egyptian enchantment. In the old land of the Sphinx and Memnon, and the Pyramids, we may be content to dwell with statues, and walk admiringly among the silent wonders of art. "Gebir" does not break the spell. Mr. LANDOR has written "Count Julian, a Tragedy," and several Dramatic Sketches. He stands very high among the unacted dramatists of the present day, and they are neither small nor unsuccessful as a body, but he needs the warm, unconscious humanity of Shakspeare to melt the icy intellect in the flowing heart. If we fail in this to convey a lofty idea of Mr. LANDOR's powers, we fail of our meaning; we are enthusiasts for his merits, but they are for the few, not for the many he is sarcastical and satirical, and the world, we suspect, will take him for a misanthrope, and pronounce his writings impracticable. Assuredly, they are not popular, but they are scholarlike and profound: let his future translators reconcile the difference. They can build many a domestic home and hearthstone out of his one pinnacled marble castle. Published by Moxon, in 1831, with "Count Julian" and other dramatic and minor poems. This, with two dramatic pieces, "Andrea of Hungary," and “Giovanni of Naples," printed for the benefit of GRACE DARLING, by BENTLEY, in 1839; the verses in his prose works, and some contributions to the journals and annuals, were his only published poems until 1846, when others appeared in his complete Works. TAMAR RELATES TO GEBIR HIS FIRST ENCOUNTER WITH THE NYMPH. "'Twas evening, tho' not sunset, and spring tide, Level with these green meadows, seem'd still higher. 'Twas pleasant; and I loosen'd from my neck The pipe you gave me, and began to play. Oh that I ne'er had learnt the tuneful art! It always brings us enemies or love! Well, I was playing, when above the waves Some swimmer's head methought I saw ascend; I, sitting still, survey'd it, with my pipe Awkwardly held before my lips half-closed. Gebir! it was a nymph! a nymph divine! I cannot wait describing how she came, How I was sitting, how she first assumed The sailor; of what happened there remains Enough to say, and too much to forget. The sweet deceiver stept upon this bank Before I was aware; for with surprise Moments fly rapid as with love itself. Stooping to tune afresh the hoarsen'd reed, I heard a rustling, and where that arose My glance first lighted on her nimble feet. Her feet resembled those long shells explored By him who to befriend his steed's dim sight Would blow the pungent powder in the eye. Her eyes too! O immortal gods! her eyes Resembled what could they resemble! what Ever resemble those! E'en her attire Was not of wonted woof nor vulgar art: Her mantle show'd the yellow samphire-pod, Her girdle, the dove-coloured wave serene. Shepherd,' said she, and will you wrestle now, And with the sailor's hardier race engage?' I was rejoiced to hear it, and contrived How to keep up contention; could I fail By pressing not too strongly, yet to press ? Whether a shepherd, as indeed you seem, Or whether of the hardier race you boast, I am not daunted; no, I will engage. But first,' said she, what wager will you lay ?' A sheep,' I answered; add whate'er you will.' I cannot,' she replied, make that return: Our hided vessels in their pitchy round Seldom, unless from rapine, hold a sheep. But I have sinuous shells of pearly hue Within, and they that lustre have imbibed In the sun's palace porch, where, when unyoked, His chariot-wheel stands midway in the wave: Shake one, and it awakens; then apply Its polish'd lips to your attentive ear, And it remembers its august abodes, And murmurs as the ocean murmurs there. Above her breast, and just below her arms. This pays a shepherd to a conquering maid.' She smiled, and more of pleasure than disdain PASSAGE FROM COUNT JULIAN. Julian. O cruelty-to them indeed the least! My children, ye are happy-ye have lived Of heart unconquered, honour unimpaired, And died, true Spaniards, loyal to the last. Muza. Away with him. Julian. Slaves! not before I lift My voice to heaven and man: though enemies FESULAN IDYL. HERE, where precipitate Spring with one light bound Whose tallest flowers could tell the lowlier ones At what they seemed to show me with their nods, That would let drop without them her best stores. "This indeed," Cried she," is large and sweet." She held one forth, Whether for me to look at or to take She knew not, nor did I; but taking it Would be st have solved (and this she felt) her doubts. I dared not touch it; for it seemed a part Of her own self; fresh, full, the most mature Of blossoms, yet a blossom; with a touch To fall, and yet unfallen. She drew back The boon she tendered, and then, finding not TO IANTHE. WHILE the winds whistle round my cheerless room, That fires the poet, or informs the sage, TO CORINTH. QUEEN of the double sea, beloved of him But. O queen, "Stay! spare him! save the last! I will forgive thee-bless thee-bend to thee Tell me, "And shall I too deceive ?" Thee and the stranger, how defaced and scarred To give the inertest masses of our earth Her loveliest forms was thine, to fix the gods Within thy walls, and hang their tripods round With fruits and foliage knowing not decay. A nobler work remains: thy citadel Invites all Greece; o'er lands and floods remote Many are the hearts that still beat high for thee: Confide then in thy strength, and unappalled Look down upon the plain, while yokemate kings Run bellowing, where their herdsmen goad them on; Instinct is sharp in them, and terror trueThey smell the floor whereon their necks must lie. STANZAS. SAY ye, that years roll on and ne'er return? Say ye, the sun who leaves them all behind, Their great creator, cannot bring one back With all his force, though he draw worlds around? Witness me, little streams! that meet before My happy dwelling; witness, Africo And Mensola! that ye have seen at once Twenty roll back, twenty as swift and bright As are your swiftest and your brightest waves, When the tall cypress o'er the Doccia Hurls from his inmost boughs the latent snow. Go, and go happy, pride of my past days And solace of my present, thou whom fate Alone hath sever'd from me! One step higher Must yet be mounted, high as was the last : Friendship, with faltering accent, says depart! And take the highest seat below the crown'd. WORSHIP GOD ONLY. Ines. Revere our holy church; though some within Have erred, and some are slow to lead us right, Stopping to pry when staff and lamp should be In hand, and the way whiten underneath. Pedro. Ines, the church is now a charnel-house, Where all that is not rottenness is drowth. Thou hast but seen its gate hung round with flowers, And heard the music whose serenest waves Cover its gulfs and dally with its shoals, And hold the myriad insects in light play Above it, loth to leave its sunny sides. Look at this central edifice! come close! Men's bones and marrow its materials are, Men's groans inaugurated it, men's tears Sprinkle its floor, fires lighted up with men Are censers for it; agony and anger Surround it night and day with sleepless eyes; Dissimulation, terror, treachery, Denunciations of the child, the parent, The sister, brother, lover, (mark me, Ines!) Are the peace-offerings God receives from it. Ines. I tremble-but betrayers tremble more. Now cease, cease, Pedro! cling I must to somewhat: Leave me one guide, one rest! Let me love God! Alone-if it must be so! Pedro. Him alone Mind; in him only place thy trust henceforth. THE TAMED DORMOUSE. THERE is a creature, dear to Heaven, And claim'd the alcove wherein it lay, TO A DEAD CHILD. CHILD of a day, thou knowest not The tears that overflow thy urn, The gushing eyes that read thy lot, Nor, if thou knewest, couldst return! And why the wish? the pure and blest Watch like thy mother o'er thy sleep; O peaceful night! O envied rest! Thou wilt not ever see her weep. ON THE DEATH OF SOUTHEY. Nor the last struggle of the sun, Nearer, though high above, who ran What voice in anguish can we raise? Thee would we, need we, dare we praise? God now does that-the God thy whole heart loved. SIXTEEN. IN Clementina's artless mien Lucilla asks me what I see, And are the roses of sixteen Enough for me? Lucilla asks, if that be all; I now behold another scene, Faith, on whose breast the loves repose, REPENTANCE OF KING RODERIGO. THERE is, I hear, a poor half-ruined cell Green are the walls within, green is the floor I know not, nor inquired-a scene of blood, Walked slowly, and behind him was a man And just removed you from the court awhile, Ferrante. Called thee tyrant? I! By heaven! in tyrant there is something great By maddest rage than clay-cold apathy. MORNING. Now to Aurora borne by dappled steeds, The waves beneath in purpling rows, like doves CLIFTON. CLIFTON, in vain thy varied scenes invite- A CATHEDRAL SCENE. Now all the people follow the procession: I could have fancied purer light descended. EPITAPH ON A POET IN A WELSH CHURCHYARD. KIND Souls! who strive what pious hand shall bring |